Oh That?

In response to emotions,
Inchoate vehemence,
On it’s defences, draws
Out it’s knife.

A single misstep,
An incorrect utterance
It implores,
As it utilises sick secrecies
On those “outside of me”.

Human. Human. Human. Human. Human.

I am.



Tonal airs drift towards squeamish rows.

Shortly after, snow flurried onto shorn hairs that
Candidly shown; glints from cable cars, seemingly
Sewn into rails of justifications in worn realities, were then
Geared to avoid defunct enamored tears.

We noticed mixtures that could be of the perfected;
Severances in all them reviled humanistic tendencies.

Telephonic displays; their identifications,
Coo their heartfelt sympathies,
Done by drones, as they’d reassure and
Say, “I love you” in electronic voicemails.


She smoothes down her shirt,
Hands clenched on tattered
Threads begging for alms in
The middle of the expressway
Where blurs of motor vehicles
Pass by in celerity, as imminent
Gossamer webs of sordidity
From forsaken reticences within
Contorted visions by liaisons
Whimsically snapped threads in volition.

Denouements acting as reminders of
Glitches in this system.

My Angel

My angel sings for me his tune
A lullaby of the misfortune
Of those that walk with him
His anger, his disappointment,
His expectations, his desire
To see them soar
Than the life they have succumbed to.
How he weeps
While they poison themselves,
While weaving quills
Onto wooden twigs,
With needle and thread,
Pricking fresh punctured bleeds
On his cracked healing flesh.

He alludes to hidden treasures
Stored in his solemn solitary mind,
Along with deft rhythmic rhyme,
On spur of flight,
Sending gusts of billowing winds
As I close the holes in my head,
I revel in satin wisps that caress,
I breathe, after it passes,
In harmonic fragrance;
The elixir he poured
In correspondence.

My safe haven,
Wrought out in flesh,
I thank the gods that we met,
That he seeks my company.
Parcels he presents in fleeting moments;
The sweetest scents of his sentience,
Of plush dove wings
That softly comfort;
The warmth
Of sunbeam rings.

That I commit
The same crimes
Of those
Who turn to complacency,
Mediocrity and contempt,
Of those who only listen
To his melody,
Ignoring the harmonics
Of the lyrical tapestry
He’s woven,
Reveals my garbled soul
Of glossy marbled onyx,
Then parts of my body

Such love
He holds for them,
For us.
He hopes that the wings he supplies
Will help in our quest for human flight.
His feet supplanted,
Refusing to acknowledge
The truth that slithers beneath his eyes;
That angels
Are born and bred
In few.

The love he has for them,
I don’t have it.
Mine is twisted and mangled,
It hurls acid
In the faces
Of those
Who flick mud on my shoes,
And it doesn’t weave
For men.

I am or am I

I wanted
To see
How close
We would get
To the future
He foretold.

I wanted
To explore
The world
That existed
Between us.
Even if
There would
Always be
Other options.
I wanted
To witness
His magnificence,
His imperfections,
His nature,
In person.

It didn’t matter
When he said he’d let me down,
That was something I expected.
But I only partially believed him
When he said
I’d regret

“She’s a lunatic”
They whisper.

I am a heretic
For believing,
For pleading,
Through prayer
Hoping this love
Could have existed,
Or am I
Nothing more
A disillusioned
Fanatic stalker.